Nettles
by Thefreakoutsideyourwindow
Summary: When young America is left to his own devices, he stumbles across a nasty patch of nettles, of which invokes the wrath of England. Based off of the poem 'Nettles' by Vernon Scannell. One-shot.


**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**A/N: Doc manager is being horrible to me and not letting me alter the document before submitting it (sad face), and for those of you following my other stories, I am so so SO sorry I am taking forever in updating. I really am. However, GCSE's are really kicking off and I'm finding that I often don't have the time to be getting sick, let alone write. Regardless, have faith and I shall continue them. For now though, enjoy my little English literature baby. The poem is 'Nettles' by Vernon Scannell (1922-2007)**

* * *

**Nettles**

_My son aged three fell in a nettle bed. _

It was unexpected, England thought, to hear cries other than happiness coming from Alfred at this hour. Periodically, a gentle breeze would disturb the leaves and the well tended to grass would wave a silent 'hello'. Surprisingly, for May, the temperature wasn't sweltering. Laying itself upon their backs, sunlight greeted them warmly as directly above it glistened down with no clouds in her company. Deciding another opportunity like this wouldn't show up anytime soon, England took the brief break from his paperwork like a blessing and went out to do some much needed gardening with America.

The boy, it seemed, had grown bored with the tedious and gentle process of nourishing the plants, and had toddled off to find some butterflies or other short life spanned being to entertain himself with. He had just about finished with the peonies when he heard a pained yelp accompanied by shaky cries for help. Dread stuck him in the gut as he dashed towards the source of the sound, thankful that Alfred was relatively close and glared at the things responsible for the tears.

_'Bed' seemed a curious name for those green spears,_

Casting a side way glance, it looked as if America had been following an insect of some sort or another and accidentally fell in the nettle bed. The lack of gardening and optimum weather as of late was a good explanation as to why they had popped up as such, but his carelessness had already cost him. Well, one does not often have time to be careful when dealing with hoards of letters by the hundred.

_ That regiment of spite behind the shed: _

The shade covered and cooled them as the old, rickety and not often used shed still stood tall and proud, despite letting enemies through into it's territory. Crouching down so he was on the boy's level, England stretched out his arms and expertly lifted him out of the hate filled spikes' den so he would not feel their sting anymore.

_ It was no place for rest. With sobs and tears_

England hushed the child's cries as he held him in his arms, gently rocking him back and forth whilst comfortingly petting his back. "America, Alfred, I need you to look at me. Can you do that, love?" He soothed, running his fingers through the tiny colony's wheat blonde hair, yet not without hidden concern and urgency.

_The boy came seeking comfort and I saw_

Gradually, the constant stream of tears slowed, and with a few sniffles and hiccups, America slowly lifted his head to look into his caretaker's eyes, his own red from crying and tear streaks ran down his now rather puffy cheeks. "I-it hurts Iggy..." He mumbled, trying desperately not to break out into another onslaught of tears.

_ White blisters beaded on his tender skin._

"I know lad, I know..." Arthur whispered, kissing Alfred's forehead tenderly as he strode inside to deal with the matter. Placing him down gently on the kitchen table, England assured him he would be right back before going off to find the bottle of vinegar and a kitchen rag. Smiling briefly upon acquiring them, he made his way back to the still sniffling colony and went to assess the damage.

Small, white bumps embedded themselves across his forehead, cheeks, hands and feet, as well as some of his legs as the white robes didn't offer full protection. Although hardly visible, England knew from years of living in the forest that they often stung worse than a honey bee on most days.

_We soothed him till his pain was not so raw. _

After carefully washing the boy down in the sink with the water pump, England skilfully applied vinegar to the nettle stings, effectively numbing the majority of the pain as the cause became less prominent and defined. Before long, all of the stings had been covered.

_At last he offered us a watery grin, _

Placing the vinegar soaked rags in the sink, Arthur turned to see Alfred almost falling flat on his back due to exhaustion from the crying. Allowing himself an inside smile, he moved to pick up the boy. As he carried him to his room for a well deserved nap, the mass of warmth squirmed in his arms and as he slowed, fearful that he may drop him, Alfred looked up to Arthur with adoration in his eyes and gave a sleepy smile before murmuring a near silent 'Thank you'.

Gently, England nuzzled their foreheads together in affection, but still mindful of the tender area. Deciding a nap was well in order, he tucked the now asleep America into his bed and made sure that a few of the fae were with him just to be safe, as the previous events had given him quite the shock.

_And then I took my hook and honed the blade_

With thoughts taking a darker turn, England's mind returned back to the nettles, focusing on the harm they had done to his little boy. Picking up a common farming scythe, he sharpened it with another piece of metal until deemed well enough that just a single alteration in his wrist would cause light to be reflected in a much different manner.

_ And went outside and slashed in fury with it_

Storming through the house yet avoiding slamming the door so as not to wake America, England marched into the garden in a rage with scythe in hand, pausing for just a moment as he loomed over those wretched spears, making sure every single one knew what was going to happen to them and that their fate was inescapable. Holding the scythe above his head, he held it for a moment so the sun's glint was visible in the blade before he brought it down, slashing at any and every nettle he could see.

_ Till not a nettle in that fierce parade_

Green. That was all he could see. Green. Normally it was a comforting colour, that of his home, but now all it reminded him of was the colour that had hurt his little America, and that of which he failed to look out for in the naïve belief that he would be fine on his own for a few moments. Not with these spiked wretches waiting to prey on his beloved, unprotected child at any given moment.

_ Stood upright any more. Next task: I lit_

Breathing harshly, England eventually stood back up to his fully height, scythe in hand and rolled his shoulders, working out the tension. With distaste and a spark of fuelled revenge in his eyes, he noted that all of the nettles that were once there had been hacked down. Good. One less thing to harm America. Sighing in frustration of the situation, Arthur reached into his pocket and pulled out a single match. Holding it between his fingers, he observed it for a moment, before striking it across the strip on the card container, causing it to ignite in amber flames. Tossing the scythe away from himself, he gazed deep into his second stage of his revenge, and threw the match onto the pile of nettles.

_ A funeral pyre to burn the fallen dead._

He watched passively as the spineless shells of now harmless soldiers burned in the simple flames, the smoke rising up in a single trail. England continued to watch the scene before him in mild interest, but mostly because he didn't want the fire to get out of hand, though secretly, it was to make sure that only ashes remained.

Half an hour had passed by the time he was convinced that there was nothing more to burn, and so caused him to quench the small fire with a bucket of water and put the very useful scythe in it's respectable place. Once finished, he made his way back inside where his son was slowly rousing from his short nap, keen to bring him back to normalcy.

_ But in two weeks the busy sun and rain _

Two weeks had passed since the nettles incident, and life had returned to normal for the paperwork doomed Arthur and ever carefree Alfred. The weather had been a bit unusual given the month, but with the sunlight at the moment no one had been complaining, not even Arthur who's mood was getting increasingly worse due to the increasing paperwork. However, when he walked through the garden on a simple stroll for his break, his mood took a turn for the worse.

_ Had called up tall recruits behind the shed:_

Anger instantly boiled up in him as he saw those accursed demons in his yard again. Not just in his yard, but in the exact same spot they were last time, nestled closely to the shed and seemingly just a batch of tall, long grass to a worldly inexperienced person or child. Yet despite his work, poor Alfred always seemed to stumble across the same wicked patch of nettles now and then.

_ My son would often feel sharp wounds again._

* * *

_My son aged three fell in a nettle bed._

_'Bed' seemed a curious name for those green spears,_

_That regiment of spite behind the shed:_

_It was no place for rest. With sobs and tears_

_The boy came seeking comfort and I saw_

_White blisters beaded on his tender skin._

_We soothed him till his pain was not so raw._

_At last he offered us a watery grin,_

_And then I took my hook and honed the blade_

_And went outside and slashed in fury with it_

_Till not a nettle in that fierce parade_

_Stood upright any more. Next task: I lit_

_A funeral pyre to burn the fallen dead._

_But in two weeks the busy sun and rain_

_Had called up tall recruits behind the shed:_

_My son would often feel sharp wounds again._


End file.
